


Ghosts of the Past

by SkyFireForever



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Era, Emotional Healing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Flashbacks, M/M, Musical Complient, Other, Past Character Death, Pierre is a sad old man, Post-Canon, Why are everyones names so hard to spell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 10:45:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11484741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyFireForever/pseuds/SkyFireForever
Summary: Post-Canon, after the mess that was Great Comet, everyone is a little unsure of what to do with themselves. Pierre tries to convince Andrei that he is being unreasonable, but when emotions get in the way, he doesn't know if he can allow himself to be so vulnerable. Meanwhile, Mary makes a friend for the first time in a long time and wants nothing more than to give herself over to Sonya, but between her brother and her father, she doesn't know if she can allow herself any distractions. Anatole is also trying to figure out how to return with help from his sister and Dolokhov.I'm very bad at summaries, let me live.





	Ghosts of the Past

**Author's Note:**

> So, let me start that this is not canon with War and Peace. I've never read it, so this fic is based just on the musical and the musical alone. The backstories of the characters are what I imagine them to be. Just thought I should get that out of the way. This chapter is more of a starter chapter to test the waters, just a little background. Think of it as a prologue.

_ Pierre sat on a hill, gazing across the field below him. He held a journal in his lap, a quill in hand. He wrote about the things he longed to do with his life, the things he would change. He felt the breeze in his hair that was not yet grey, he felt the tickle of the feather of the quill he was holding in his hand. He wrote and wrote and wrote, filling the page with ideals and hopes and innocence. He only stopped when a soft, pale hand rested upon his own. Pierre looked up, into eyes as green as the grass that surrounded him. Those eyes that looked exactly as Pierre had last seen them, those beautiful green eyes that sparkled with such life in them, full of dreams and promises. Green eyes upon a freckled face, long ginger hair that flowed down the young man’s shoulders as if the strands were rivers, a smile that hid the beginnings of a smirk. It was a face that Pierre would recognize anywhere. “Dmitri.” the name slipped from Pierre’s lips in scarcely above a whisper.  _

 

_ The man in question just laughed, that happy, hopeful laugh that made Pierre’s heart melt. “You look surprised to see me.” the boy teased, for that’s what he was. He was barely more than a boy. “You’ve grown old.” the smile never left his face, even as he pressed a hand to Pierre’s cheek, stroking the skin there. “You have wrinkles and grey hair.” he plucked a hair from Pierre’s head, twirling it between his fingers. “You’ve forgotten me, Pyotr.” _

 

_ Pierre quickly shook his head, holding Dmitri’s hand in his own. “Never.” he whispered, his free hand reaching out to cup the pale face in front of him. “I could never forget you.” his eyes filled with tears, wanting to reach out and hold the boy close. “I think of you always, every day. Everyday I wish you were with me. You must believe that.” he voice sounded desperate even to his own ears. _

 

_ “I am nothing to you.” Dmitri’s voice was cold and seemed to sting Pierre’s very heart. “I am forgotten.” Pierre watched in horror as Dmitri’s eyes turned cold and empty, his body slumping over, his shirt turning red. _

 

_ “No.” Pierre whispered. “No. No!” he began to sob, holding the broken body in his arms. “No!” his hands turned red as Dmitri’s body disappeared, his voice still ringing in Pierre’s ears.  _

 

“No!” Pierre sat upright in bed, his body shaking, covered in his own sweat. He clutched his chest, feeling his heart beat wildly under the skin. He took gulping breaths of air, blinking back tears despite the ones that had already fallen onto his cheeks. He looked around himself, finding himself in his bedroom, his bed empty as it usually was. He closed his eyes, trying to will the dream away from him, wanting to forget it. He could still see the lifeless body when he closed his eyes, he could still hear his voice. Pierre’s eyes snapped open and he forced himself out of bed, deciding that he was in desperate need of a drink. He stumbled towards his bottle of wine, not even bothering with a glass. He took a long swig directly from the bottle, hoping that it would ease his nerves and wipe away the haunting memories of the dream. He felt almost guilty for trying to forget, but he tried to drown out those emotions as well. With enough alcohol, Pierre had convinced himself that he could drown out anything. He sat at the table, drinking from the bottle and trying to calm himself. His mind slowly left the thought of Dmitri and wandered off to other things. He thought of Natasha, beautiful, sweet, kind hearted Natasha. She deserved so much more than what she had gotten. Anatole’s complete disregard for other people had almost ruined the poor girl’s life. Not to mention Andrei. Andrei, his old friend, his most trusted and closest friend. Pierre had been shocked to see how cold his friend was, how dark and terrifying. He was not the Andrei that Pierre remembered. 

 

“Pull yourself together, old man.” Pierre shook his head. He couldn’t allow himself to think of such things now. It was too late. Natasha was sad, miserable, depressed. Andrei was ruined, a shell of the man that Pierre had thought he was. Anatole was gone, hopefully out of their lives forever, though Pierre doubted that was the case. After all, Héléne was still here, she was still Pierre’s wife. Anatole wouldn’t abandon his sister, not for her sake, but for his own. Pierre would be a fool not to notice the way the two of them danced around each other, the flirtations, the smirks and the smiles. It didn’t require the confirmation that Pierre had received. It wasn’t just incest that Anatole was engaged in, Pierre was sure, but sodomy as well. He would be foolish not to notice that the looks shared between Anatole and Héléne were rather similar to the glances between Anatole and Dolokhov. Pierre supposed that it would be hypocritical of him to fault Anatole for that. He sighed to himself, hating to think that he shared anything with Anatole, preferring to believe that they were as different as two people could be after all that had happened. Pierre pressed his lips to the mouth of his bottle only to find that it was pitifully empty. 

 

The man sighed to himself, finding that he was lost within his thoughts. He threw the old bottle out and stood with a creaking to his bones. He was old, yes. He wasn’t the young and idealistic worshiper of Napoleon that he once was, studying in Paris, falling foolishly in love. Pierre shook his head and returned to his bed alone. He allowed the emptiness that he felt fill him until it carried him off into a restless sleep.  

**Author's Note:**

> So, tell me what you think by leaving a comment, they really do make my day! Even negative comments can teach me how to improve my writing, so feel free to give as much feedback as you like!


End file.
